


Learn Your History

by sxpernatural



Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Case, Confused John, M/M, OR IS HE, POV John Watson, casefic with romance, clueless to feelings sherlock, sixteenth century references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxpernatural/pseuds/sxpernatural
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>so yeah if you like this then itd be awesome if you could leave feedback!</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I looked at my phone that vibrated obnoxiously on the table sat next to me. I had a feeling about who it happened to be, but still felt a little surprised as I saw the name "Mary" flash upon the screen. I felt a wave of anger run through my veins and even into the air surrounding my figure slouched in my chair. Sherlock looked at me and I could already see he knew who was calling.

He saw everything.

And that's a thing that (even though it could be annoying at times) was something I loved about him. He could put puzzle pieces together even when they didn't seem to fit in everyone else's eyes. It reminded me of how we worked together. We were polar opposites in most parts, but the places in which we were alike made a huge difference. It reminded me of the yin and yang. So different yet they needed each other to work properly. He knew all my emotions, sure, sometimes he didn't sense them right at first due to his mind being mostly just "FactFactFactFact" but he did manage to see them at some point. He knew what facial expressions I made, how I held myself differently; Sherlock knew what made me tick.

I reached for my phone to answer it, as I stretched my hand out I had a sinking feeling in my stomach, but Sherlock shook his head. "Don't do anything you don't want to, John." So I returned to my previous position and stayed stationary until the vibrating stopped, leaving an almost deathly silence to settle upon the room. "When are you going to forgive her?" Sherlock asked. He seemed genuinely curious. The skin between his eyebrows wrinkled as they pulled closer and he leaned forward, putting his head to rest on his hand with his legs crossed. He winced, though it may have been just slightly, I saw it. And that one facial movement of his was enough to add another layer on top of my rage.

"Why would you expect me to forgive her?" 

He tilted his head. I have had yet to seen him be this baffled by _me._

"She shot you, almost killed you, Sherlock. I cannot forgive her. No matter how hard I try, I will never be able to trust her whole-heartedly like I once did." 

He sent me a look, for a millisecond but I saw it. What was it?

Sherlock was what many would call an enigma wrapped inside a bomb and chained to the sun. You had to be _very_ close with him to even get a vague reading on what he was feeling. 

_I_ am very close with him, so I saw what it meant. 

_He knew something I didn't._

It wasn't something that was unusual, I just felt that this time that possibly it was different. That maybe he knew something that I should.

It didn't really bother me. Just that nagging feeling clawing at my lungs yelling at me saying "You should know this!" I racked my brain, but no matter how hard I thought on the subject I couldn't find the answer to this problem.

Reminds me of pretty much my entire school life.

I decided to stop thinking about it. If it were of importance, he would tell me. Wouldn't he? Doubt raced through my mind as memories of the two years I thought he was dead appeared in the for-front of my thoughts. Wouldn't that have qualified as important? You never really knew what qualified as what when it came to Sherlock Holmes, that's one thing I've learned over the years knowing this man.

"You forgave me." He said in a soft voice. It surprised me, the way he spoke, Usually whenever he spoke in a voice softer than his own it was to comment on how oblivious everyone but him was.

"Th-" I tried to think of the right words to say. "That was different. I mean, you're Sherlock. And you haven't killed god knows how many people." He still gave a look that said 'I'm not buying it.' I added "You didn't lie to me about your identity since the first day we met. All in all, you are probably one of the best and trustworthy people I have ever had the privilege to have known."

I inwardly cringed. That was by far the most girly thing I have ever said. But I meant every word I said so I didn't really regret it. 

Sherlock had no idea how much he meant to me.

And it saddened me to know he probably never would.

There was something with Sherlock that I didn't ever fully understand. He had this "me me me" mind format but you could also tell he didn't have a good supply of self-worth.

Self-worth and self-esteem are two different things. Self esteem is how you place yourself around others; more how you treat other people when you meet them. Sherlock was overflowing in self-esteem.

However, self-worth is how you truly think of yourself. How _you_ think others think of you. He didn't really even believe that I would miss him when he played possum for two years. Me. His best-friend. 

I'm not a therapist and don't think I ever should be, but it seems to me that he doesn't truly believe anyone genuinely cares about him. And it's that thought that makes my heart break.

Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together and I felt my stomach twinge. "I pretended to be dead for two years, how am I a person who is worthy of trust?" He didn't get it. _It was different._ But... How was it different exactly?

For a man of my age, I have way too many trust issues. If someone says anything even as simple as "It's going to be a warm day tomorrow!" then I instantly am doubting them. Although it is England so I guess I do have a reason to doubt that bit of information. But I, knowing all my trust issues do know that I fully and completely trust Sherlock. I would, and have, put my life in his hands, giving him the choice to drop it or fight to keep me alive.

"You don't know you like I know you. I know you are worthy of my trust." He licked his lips slowly while sitting up in his chair with his elbows resting on his knees. He looked down at his feet and grinned. 

"You're peculiar." Sherlock said.

I looked at him, a bit offended. "Sorry?" It meant to sound off, or mad, but it came out sounding like more of a question.

He laughed. The laugh that showed his white teeth, the laugh that made the skin near the corner of his eyes wrinkle a bit, the laugh that I adored, but would never tell him. Although, to be honest, I'm sure he already knows. After all, he is Sherlock Holmes. "It's a compliment, John." That sentence pulled the right side of my lips up, forming a half smile. Somehow Sherlock always managed to have this effect. "You're peculiar as in you won't forgive your wife, the love of your life, the woman carrying your child, but you will forgive me. I'm just a sociopath living in a mediocre flat that occasionally gets off on a serial killing."

Again with the self-worth.

I sighed loudly. _So observant, yet so clueless._

You would think that someone of his intelligence would be able to look through a façade as simple as "I'm not gay." Although, Sherlock seems to think that any male who cares about his appearance is homosexual. I don't really follow the stereotype though, so I can see why he had no clue.

I rolled my eyes at the consulting detective. "You really are clueless..." I said while subtly laughing and shaking my head. Sherlock tilted his head and a confused look found it's way onto his face. I started laughing slightly again and went to my room.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day I sat in my bedroom, staring absently at the telly as it stared back at me with its glossy black screen. I debated turning it on and watching something; I could go for a fun news story about murder and thievery. Maybe some good, old fashioned adultery to go along with it.

 _Yeah, I've been socializing with Sherlock a bit too much._ Eh, it didn't bother me.

But I gave in to the need to want to cure boredom, and reached to get the remote. Right as my fingertips grazed the cold plastic, my bedroom door was flung open and a happy, very excited Sherlock barged through. _Probably a murder._ I guessed. "John! There's been four murders not too far from here and the most recent one didn't take place too far from here. Lestrade called and we're on the case, so let's go!" Sherlock just about exclaimed. I sighed as my eyebrows rose. _How did I guess?_

Meanwhile, I was a little annoyed with the lack of knocking. "Don't just come barging in like that! What if I had been naked?"

In record time Sherlock answered "Well I would have to question what you would be doing naked in your bedroom at twelve forty-six P.M., but here." He then knocked on the already open door. Even with his annoying nature, I couldn't help but give a little half-smile as I got up and put my jacket on. Sure, I was still a little peeved about Sherlock not understanding what the word privacy means, but there was no way I was gonna miss out on this. (Sometimes I worry that my mind has been polluted with Sherlock's attitude about murders, although I am learning to accept that since I moved in with him that that has been happening.)

On the way out the door, he put his coat on in that way that just lets you know right then that he's trying too hard to be cool. He flipped the collar up and I almost laughed. I thought if he did this while I was here only or if he just did it by himself. I also wondered if he even did this knowingly. He put the collar up and... winked at me as he went out of our flat and to the staircase right next to it. _He fucking winked at me._ I felt like a bloody teenage girl, getting butterflies in my stomach because of a boy.

I decided to slide it off seeing as this was Sherlock, he does things on impulse all the time (Although I have a right to think _why_ he would even feel the impulse to wink at me). I pursed my lips and ran downstairs to meet him. We waited on the sidelines of the street and right as he stuck his hand out, a cab drove up to us and stopped. On occasion I have suspicion that Sherlock calls the cabby beforehand and just tells him to pretend to be driving normally and then stop right in front of us. Because I swear, Sherlock always seemed to get a cab ten to thirty seconds after sticking his hand out. 

Maybe he just has a talent of getting cabby's attention. Don't blame the blokes, I'd stop right away if I saw a man remotely as attractive as Sherlock sticking his hand out for a cab.

I'd race the other cabs.

I can see it now. _I'm driving down the street and right as I see him stick his hand out I speed up, only to see another cab close in on the detective. I plow through the other cab (somehow not causing damage to the one I am in) and open the door with a smile on my face. "Get in the damn cab."_

Truth be told, I actually am very selfish in some ways. If something is mine, it's _staying_ mine. Really what I think happened was that I got into the "mine" phase at three and never truly got out of it.

Sherlock ducked into the now open cab and I followed. There was always something that I hated and loved whenever we took a cab together; the backseat was so small that our legs had to be touching unless we wanted to crowd against the doors. I don't know what Sherlock thought about the contact, but I sure know I enjoy it. But the thing I didn't like about it was that just touching him, it reminded me that he wouldn't feel the same way.

Shit, I'm sounding cheesy. This isn't how I normally think, there's just this exception for Sherlock that I never understood until I figured out I was attracted in more ways than one to the man. 

I've had feelings like this before. Somewhere during college I had a fling with (little did I know at that time) a complete dick. But after that, I ignored all the feelings. I like women, too, (I don't like to specify what I am, I feel there's no need to, I just like whoever I happen to) so I just went after them. It worked, until I met a certain curly-haired detective.

After I met Sherlock, there was no doubt in my mind that I liked men as well. I was _terrified_. So I did what I had been doing; I went after women.

I was quite surprised that Sherlock didn't notice how uninterested in them I actually was. He seemed to notice everything, just _not that._ He never suspected a thing. Well, at least he never mentioned noticing anything.

I looked over at Sherlock, studying his face and neck. I could almost never catch a glimpse of what he was feeling unless I already had an idea. That was one of the things that bugged me, actually. He knew that if I made a certain motion, I was sad. He knew if my breathing changed than I was angry.

His pale skin glistened in the light of the barely there sun. The ghostly light highlighted all his features: his sharp jawline, his collarbones that stuck out from snow-white skin, his high cheekbones that I wanted to pepper with kisses.

Totally heterosexual of me.

The sky matched the mood of the day; grey tends to mix with confusion and death pretty well. "So," I broke the silence in the cab. "Have any details on the murder victims?"

"Well," he said as he played with the cuff of his sleeve. "the first victim was killed thirteen days ago and they thought nothing of it, that it was just a suicide. The first one had the walls painted the color of the insides of his skull by a gun they thought was his own." He rolled his eyes as I tried not to visualize the image Sherlock put in my mind, though I have seen worse. "Naive fools." He muttered under his breath. "But after the forth victim, the one today, they started having doubts and checked the bullets found in the last three victims. They weren't from their own guns; the bullets were from sixteenth century muskets that the military used in war."

I sniffed and thought about the case at hand. I couldn't come up with anything useful except that the assailant must be a huge history geek. I didn't get why I even went on these cases, I couldn't offer much help unless I had to shoot something or examine a body. Which I guess, yeah, at times can be useful, but other than those things I was virtually useless.

Maybe I didn't have much self-worth either.

We arrived at the flat that contained the new-found body. I could almost feel the anticipation radiating off Sherlock; he's a strange man.

I was actually glad that he got excited about crimes once I thought about it. It's better he got excited about solving crimes than _committing_ them. If he somehow decided to go dark-side, then he would be the most infamous and most dangerous criminal there was. Well, not infamous. Because he wouldn't be caught unless he _wanted_ to be caught. Somewhat how some people claim that someone committed the perfect murder, and how they're wrong. If they committed the perfect murder, they wouldn't have gotten caught.

We got out of the cab (well not exactly, Sherlock jumped out, leaving me to pay for the ride out of my pocket) and walked into the building. We were greeted by Donovan, whom since Sherlock turned out to not be dead, was actually quite tolerable to work with now. Although they still made jabs at each other, but what could stop that? World War III could happen and Sherlock would still be making intellectual jabs at her as she made poorly thought of and commonly used insults to come back with. He bounded up the stairs to the correct flat number (I followed, praising life that it was only two flights and not ten, for I haven't been getting much sleep and didn't want to pass out) and stepped through the threshold of the crime scene.

Lestrade approached us. "Do you want to examine the victim?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and retorted "No, I thought I'd die for another two years- Yes, I want to see the body!" Lestrade chuckled; annoyed. "Do you have an I.D. on the victim?"

"No, not yet, the fingerprints were burned off somewhat recently. I suspect that she was into something bad before her death." Sherlock nodded, listening yet at the same time not.

Right as we entered, he got to work. What I saw through my ordinary eyes was a female that looked to be about thirty-five with short brown hair and a bullet hole in her head. What Sherlock saw was so much _more._ He saw where she'd been that night. He saw if she had traveled in the past month. He saw if she was cheating on her significant other.

He sees _everything._

Somehow he got focused on the shoes. He at first tried to position them to see, but then decided "fuck it" and took the whole thing off. He studied the sole and inside with wide eyes. "This isn't where she died."

I felt my eyebrows draw together in confusion. "How did you figure that?" It's not that I doubted him, it was that even after all this time, I couldn't figure out how he did it. I usually regret asking that though. Whenever he does explain, he points out things that when you see them you think _That was so obvious, I should've seen that!_ In other words, Sherlock has a habit of making me and others feel stupid.

"The shirt the woman is wearing has grass stains on it, meaning that she was rolling around in grass before her death or was dragged away afterwards. Look at the quality of this place! She was high class, why would she be rolling in grass? But," He held up the shoe. "This is obviously new, the sole has almost never been touched and the insides barely worn in, expensive as well. And another thing to tell she was dragged away," He turned the front of the shoes toward us. Dirt covered the toe of the shoe. "The dirt marks on the tip of the toe tell you her feet were dragging in the dirt as she was being dragged away." His eyes lit up. "Do you see any other shoes?" He asked loudly. We looked around. There was only a worn out pair of tennis shoes that looked like they were maybe.. five years old? Sherlock pointed to them. "Exactly. The woman was obviously of middle class money until just recently. And the brand of shoes, Nike. That is a mainly American brand."

He whipped out his mobile, typing away at the small keyboard. His facial expression didn't change as he put his phone back into his pocket. "She was a drug dealer."

Lestrade's voice rung out saying "How did you get that?" I could almost see the pride well up inside Sherlock. He seemed to love when people didn't understand something that he did perfectly, even if he pretended that it annoyed him. 

"Seeing as she wasn't middle class until just recently, I thought maybe she had won a lottery of sorts, but after searching for recent lottery winners in America and none of them being her, there was only one explanation. Drugs. Simple as that." His intelligence was to a level where I marveled at it, yet at the same time wanted to punch him in the face. It wasn't fair for one human to be that intelligent. Share some of that talent, will ya'. 

He was so smart I would call him insane. Insanity seems to go along with intelligence as if they were a two for one deal.

I rubbed my eyes. So many hours of working on cases and laying in bed awake at night because your flat-mate decided to shoot at the wall can really get to a man. Although by now it was just nearing one o'clock.

I felt as if I was back in school. The minutes ticking by, feeling more and more weighed down by the stress of life as the seconds clicked one by one in your head. 

And then, at night when you are laying in bed, thinking "Oh, I can finally rest my eyes" the thoughts would come. The thoughts that made you question every thread that holds together this universe and the things inhabiting it. The thoughts like "Why am I here? Am I here? Or am I imagining everything I see?" I tended to have these thoughts often as a child, even now I still get reminders of the thoughts that haunted me with curiosity as a child.

A rhythmic ringing sound awoke me from my reverie. When my eyes focused I saw Anderson answering his phone. I looked down at my watch. _Only two minutes had passed as I thought about ridiculous shit that doesn't correspond with the current murder at hand in the slightest._ Again with time moving ridiculously slowly. "So, John, are you just going to sit there daydreaming the rest of this case or are you going to help us find the drugs?" Sherlock said to me as he was kneeled down on the floor next to a red bag. 

I'm out of it, so of course I say "Yes." while blinking heavily. In the back of my mind I could hear a voice saying _That doesn't even make sense you imbecile._

I could hear Sherlock's sigh from across the room. "You should really get more sleep, John. Without sleep then your brain will get clogged with sleep and you won't be any help, which means I can't take you on cases. And believe it or not, it's better when you're with me." 

Well that woke me up. If I had had tea I would've spat it out because Sherlock has almost **never** admitted to liking me being on a case with him. It was obvious, sure, but I never thought I'd hear those words leave his own lips. It made a satisfying feeling come in and make it's home in my head. "I- uh, thank you." I mumbled. 

It actually meant a lot knowing Sherlock cared if I was on a case with him or not.

"Aha! Found it." Sherlock's voice boomed. He held up a bag of white substance. "Seems to be cocaine." And after that he pulled out a phone. "This ought to tell who her last customer was, or maybe even the murderer."

"Good, look through her most recent phone calls." Lestrade ordered. Sherlock got to work by turning the phone on and figuring out the pass code immediately.

"How did you manage to-"

"As a drug dealer, she was probably in a rush most of the time. So I guessed that it was something that you could type in under a second. A repeating number would most likely be the case and the one with the easiest access would be zero. The pass code is just zero-zero-zero-zero." I made a satisfied noise in the back of my throat. I liked hearing how Sherlock thought about things. His face lit up before he said "The last person she made a call to was a man named Andrew Blanding. If we check the other victims' phones and this name is on there than we have a suspect."

"Finally! A lead." Donovan exclaimed. We looked at her in confusion. "What? I can't be excited about a lead?" She questioned.

"Not to offend, but I was just certain that you had no other emotions except hate and anger." Sherlock replied without batting an eye.

Sergeant Donovan pursed her lips angrily and walked away as the rest of the crew snickered. I watched the rest of the crew exit the room, probably going back to the station to do the paperwork that came with this job(although Sherlock is a consulting detective so he doesn't have any paperwork). I was always glad that we didn't have to do paperwork, seeing as, knowing Sherlock, he would refuse to do any (probably using the excuse "It's _dull_ ") and leave me to do it all.

Sherlock waited for the rest to leave along with me. When most of the others were out of the room, I took a few steps closer to him and said "Um, thank you for what you said, Sherlock. I didn't think you actually liked me going on cases."

"Why would you think that?" He asked while turning to face me fully.

I confessed my thoughts to him "I can't really do anything of use; I just slow you down."

He just laughed as I gave him a confused glance. "Maybe _I'm_ not the clueless one, John." He said while following the remaining few crew members out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

My head rested against the door of the cab. Sunlight streaked through the crowds and across the sky, creating a warm glow over the city of London. Something that felt welcoming. We were on our way back to 221B. Glad, too. That meant I could get in a few precious hours of sleep, and while living with Sherlock, I have come to appreciate that small thing. Why couldn't we work on a case that didn't involve staying up to ungodly hours of the night (And sometimes morning)? Basically what I'm saying is that working with Sherlock can and will take a lot out of you unless you're nocturnal.

Sherlock's hand grasped mine as we neared 221B. I shivered as I felt his eyes studying my face and boring into my very being. It terrified me when he did this. He had the stare that could pick apart anything he wished. Sherlock could look at a butterfly and every once beautiful part of it would open before his eyes. Where it's been, what is was hiding, that was all an open book to Sherlock. The same went for people.

The main problem with this for me was because although he may not know what love is, he knew what it did to a person physically. The heartbeat sped up, the pupils dilated, it was easy to see if you know what it looks like. I felt my pulse thump behind my ears and I didn't need a mirror to know that my eyes were most probably dilated. I licked my lips, something I unconsciously did when I was nervous or feeling _extremely_ awkward.

Why do feelings always have to be so bloody obvious?

A flaw in humans, feelings. They get into the gears of your mind and clog it up with love and sadness and anger and hate and make it where you can't think or basically just function properly. What is the necessity of feelings anyways? Most people forgot about why we live. We live so we can reproduce and create more of our species. It's an extremely pointless existence for anything actually. Although even with all that, in my opinion it still matters. What you do, it can make a positive or negative impact on a person or a group of people.

What I think is that when you meet someone, you subconsciously say pick your poison and they infect you with whatever it may be. It could be happiness, it could be sorrow, it could be love.

And we do these things unknowingly. It's almost as if you mind goes "I will try to make his life better." or "Time to make this man wish he was never born!"

Sherlock's hand unwound itself from mine and I almost whimpered at the loss of contact until I felt it touch the small of my back. I couldn't help but glance at him through the corner of my eye; I only found him staring right back at me. I couldn't help but let a tremble go down my spine. _Of course he felt that._ I whined in my head. I saw Sherlock almost smirk as he noticed what he was doing to me. _Let him know he has even_ more _power over me. Good move, John._ I thought nearly pathetically. 

We walked up the stairs to our flat. _Our_ flat. That still made me tingle. Even though we weren't dating it sure as hell felt like it. Us living in the same flat, eating dinner together, him dragging me along everywhere he went. That included crime scenes and morgues. 

Just the typical sitcom family life.

No wonder people insisted we were dating, even to me I sometimes forgot we weren't.

It really did feel as if we were though. The looks we shared almost were longing. Even in his case. Which was odd seeing an emotion like that on his normally placid face, making every detail in his pale complexion scream with want. It was almost too much to look at without just going up to him and-

Let's not finish that thought.

Although what if I was just seeing what I wanted to see? Like a schoolgirl looking at the boy she fancies and imagining that he looked at her with the same fervor. Were all those thoughts that I swore I watched pour over his features just figments of the imagination, my mind giving me what I wanted to see? 

Those times I caught him looking though, those were the times I knew were real. I would be minding my own business and look over to find his eyes immediately locked with mine, that's when you'd witness him turning away quickly and look back at the experiment or research he was doing with the slightest hint of a blush grazing his cheeks.

That was what gave me hope that this useless liking may turn into something.

I bit my lip as we continued up the stairs. I almost felt as if he was teasing me. His mouth still set in that solid smirk; it seemed to be his only expression at the moment. His pink lips tilted at the corner, just making the slightest movement but it didn't feel like that to me. It was the only thing that I cared about right now, those lips and how I could possibly avoid making a mistake such as leaning in and pressing my own to them.

What was only about forty-five seconds seemed like a millennia as we entered the flat. Even with my little amount of sleep, I was probably more awake than I had been in my entire life. It was almost sad that something as simple as a hand resting on my back had this much effect on me. Shows just how much action I get.

His hand disappeared and I went to turn and go to my room when I felt his breath on my neck. "Goodnight..." He whispered to me huskily in his deep voice. I closed my eyes and breathed in hard, just to keep myself from turning around and pushing my lips to his. It was so bloody obvious he meant to do that. No one just gets merely two inches from someone and whispers in a sexy voice without meaning to do something.

"Goodnight." I managed to croak out. I swallowed, so _aroused._ "I-I'm gonna go now."

As I was walking from the sitting room to mine, I _swore_ I heard a chuckle of delight come from the man in his coat.

\------

Waking from my sleep, I heard the violin playing. Normally I would have blown up at Sherlock for playing at this time of day, but then I heard the actual music. A heart wrenching tone was being played, so bittersweet it made me want to cry. (Another reason I didn't blow up at him was because I checked the clock and it was already one in the afternoon, but let's go with the more poetic and sweet sounding excuse.)

I tip-toed out the door to my room; his music always interested me. I just found it incredible that a person could grab a peice of wood with strings attached and make music that sings your soul to sleep.

He was standing in the sitting room, playing so passionately on his violin that he didn't even notice me walk in. It was strange to see him so captivated in something that he didn't notice I was there. _He saw everything_ My previous thoughts ran through my head. Maybe I was wrong.

I decided not to let Sherlock know that I had seen him, although I knew I couldn't go back to bed due to the fact that he would find _something_ that told him I got out before going back. Because that's what he does.

I sometimes lie awake at night thinking if he thinks about some of the same things I do. He _has_ to. Especially someone as intelligent as himself. Sherlock must wonder sometimes. He must wonder what is after all this, the thing we call life that ends as quickly as it's started.

All in all it's very terrifying, isn't it? When you realize that you're alive and can do something. That if you don' t make a difference in some way than it's like you never existed. There are over seven billion people on this planet, what place in the world do you have if you don't do anything? Some write, some play music, some paint, but all in all it's just to get noticed. Because in all of us we have this _urge_ to please and make a difference. Even in Sherlock; he is human after all.

I walked down the hallway to go take a shower, it was the only thing I could do besides go and make conversation with Sherlock. That would pretty much give away the whole "not listening to you pour your heart out onto strings" thing. 

Although I didn't have time to do that as I heard footsteps coming towards me. I turned around and was met face to face with the man that took place in just about my every thought. "Did you think I wouldn't notice you? And why didn't you want to be noticed anyways?" He inquired. 

I sighed. "I don't know. You were so focused on it that I felt as if I was almost _invading_ you." He merely smiled. His lips stretching and curving upward just slightly at the ends... Gah I pay way to much attention to his beauty. _To his beauty. You just fucking thought that._ My mind decided to pitch in.

"Oh John..." He said still smiling. "Even if my music did mean that much to me, you should know that I would let you listen to it. I take you on cases with me, don't I? And you very well know that those are the most important things to me."

 _Wow. I never expected that deep of a response._ "I-uh-Thank you. Same goes to you."

He smirked almost knowingly. "I know." Was all he said in reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah if you like this then itd be awesome if you could leave feedback!


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